


She Didn't Choose This Life

by liquidheartbeats2



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidheartbeats2/pseuds/liquidheartbeats2
Summary: Iris West doesn’t want justice; she wants revenge and retribution. The question, however, is whether or not she wants those things more than she wants the love of Barry Allen.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Iris West
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	She Didn't Choose This Life

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of an old story I abandoned long ago. However, after re-reading it, I decided to give it another go! Please let me know what ya think! :)

Iris West moves with the weightless grace of a woman who grew up in a cushy two-parent household. A loving father, who taught her the value of hard work, and a mother who stood behind her in the mirror while she repeated positive self- affirmations.

There’s no hint of the scarred little girl who witnessed the murder of both of her parents 20 years prior, or the scorn of the grown woman who’s using the biggest art showing of the year to, finally, enact her sweet, sweet revenge on their killer. 

She descends the stairs of the grand ballroom, her head perched high on her shoulders, a scarlet red designer gown, ebbing and flowing against her figure. Her jet black hair is swept high into a messy bun. Loose tendrils frame her face. At the base of the stairs, a waiter offers her a glass of white wine. She smiles brightly, but declines. 

“No thanks, I don’t drink,” she says. 

Except Iris does drink. Hard, and often. Sometimes for leisure, but often to ease the burn of a life full of hard choices. Tonight, though, she has a job to do, so she has to keep her mind sharp, clear of distractions.

Iris continues her migration through the room, filled with politicians, dignitaries and, local celebrities. It’s the pre-mixer of sorts that occurs about an hour before the showing. 

Genius event planner. Pumping up these pretentious fucks with alcohol before the money starts flowing. 

She blends in well among them, nodding at and kissing those who know her by name, intriguing those who don’t with her effortless beauty. As one of Central City’s most prolific art buyers, her spot in the room has been earned. 

If only they knew that her business was a front for a sophisticated money laundering scheme— which had made her more money than any commission from a rare painting ever could — she’d be ostracized, at best, thrown in jail for 20 plus years at worst. She smirks to herself. Six years in this business, and she’s not come close to being snuffed out by the feds. 

Her smile fades when Bryson Wringer Jr., director of Key Stone’s biggest art museum comes into her line of vision from across the room. He stands six feet four inches, has dark brown hair gelled down on each side, and though he's 37 years old, he could pass for a decade younger easily.

If he didn’t have the blood of the man who’d had her parents mercilessly murdered, running through his veins, Iris might actually be mildly attracted to him. He sees her, briefly, raising his glass nodding. She bashfully returns his smile, then turns, letting the crest fall away when she’s out of his line of vision. 

Truth be told, she’s not looking forward to killing him. She lives a fast life that’s based on her ability to hide her pain, and deceit, under a beautiful smile. She’s stolen millions of dollars from some of Central City’s richest; she doesn’t hurt, maim, or murder. But she will, make no mistake about it. 

Years of therapy have done nothing to quell the blood lust that’s been brewing in her heart since she was 10 years old. The moment the private investigator she’d hired cracked the case, bringing her concrete proof of the person who’d had her parents offed, she started thinking of the best way to take him out. 

By the time she’d found out, Wringer’s own parents had been dead for years. But unlike her, he’d had the privilege of watching them grow old before they died of natural causes. Next, she’d considered killing Bryson himself, but she wanted him to live and suffer as she had. When she found out he had a son, who worked in the same field she did, well, the plan starting concocting itself. 

She glances up at the clock. 9:10 Pm. Fifty minutes before the showing to get Bryson Jr. alone. The vial of untraceable poison sitting comfortably in her clutch has no after taste, and will work almost immediately. All she has to do is slip it into his glass of wine, and Bryson Jr. will die a quick, painless death — which will mimic a heart attack — but it will be Bryson Sr. who will live out the rest of his years in never-ending pain. 

When Bryson Jr. starts to migrate away from the group he’s been mingling with, probably heading for the bathroom upstairs, she takes a deep breath; it’s time. Iris smooths her hand down her dress and takes a step forward. 

She walks discreetly, trailing him from a distance. 

She stops here and there to make small talk along the way, criss-crossing her path, just to keep from looking suspicious. She knows that the men’s bathroom is a long stretch from the ballroom, so even if she loses him, they’ll cross paths on his way back. 

Finally, she makes it to the exit. Down the long hallway of the convention center, Iris sees that last glimpse of Bryson Jr. round the corner, and disappear into the men’s bathroom. She can’t risk giving him the wrong idea by following him inside. This is not a leisurely call. 

Besides, there could be other men there. She looks around the long stretch of hallway, and decides that waiting in one of the rooms, then “accidentally” bumping into him when he returns will work best. She cracks her neck, first the left side then the right, and starts her trek down the hall.

“Iris," says a voice grabbing at her arm.

She turns, sighing, already knowing the face behind the voice: Barry Allen, ex-boyfriend of two years. She doesn’t know how he, a CSI for CCDP gained entrance into such an exclusive event w/o being on the guest list, but dammit if he doesn’t look like he belongs in the building. He looks runway ready in his designer Armani suit. She recognizes it immediately -- she did, afterall buy it for him. The best $5000 dollars she ever spent, too. It had been no easy feat, but she’d finally gotten him to dress like a grown man, instead of a perpetual college student. 

“What are you doing here, Barry?” she asks, concealing the frustration in her voice. She gently tugs her arm out of her grip, while smiling playfully at him. Just in case any passersbys are nearby. “We agreed, no contact.” It’s been a full month since their breakup. Well, their _latest_ breakup. Over two years, their relationship has been more off than on— but no matter the official status, their lives remained intertwined. 

“ _You_ agreed no contact.” He corrects her. “You know this isn’t what I wanted.”

“Yeah, well, you sure have a funny way of showing a girl.” Her voice is thick with sarcasm, with undertones of mild derision. She doesn’t have time for relationship drama, though, adding, “I’m working; can we do this another time?”

“I’m working too,” He shoots back. “I have an inkling this venue might soon need a skilled CSI like myself. Well, you know, if our buddy, Flash is too slow to save that innocent man in the bathroom right now..”

She rolls her eyes, remembering how much she hates when he refers to his alter ego in the third person. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, hoping that if she feigns enough confusion, he’ll believe it too. 

She turns, again, to leave but stops, opting rather to whip back around at him. He’s hasn’t moved an inch, but his eyes are locked on her; even while facing this dire truth about her, the love in his eyes proves abundant. It stirs up something in her, she’s been missing desperately, and for the first time that night, she feels like she could really use a stiff drink. “Please,” she pleads, “Leave me alone, Barry.” 

There’s pain in his piercing green eyes; it’s hard to witness, but Iris forces herself to turn from him and start her journey down the hall. 

“You know,” he calls out, “If you wanted me to leave you alone, you wouldn’t have stolen that poison out of S.T.A.R Labs.” He makes no attempt to hide the disappointment in his voice. “What, did you think we wouldn’t notice it was missing? Cisco does inventory every day. Like clockwork.

She marches back toward him, anger in every step. “I don’t know what you’re talking about," she says pointing a finger into his chest. “But maybe don’t accuse me of bullshit while using your outside voice. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Barry inhales deeply and shakes his head. “ You’re still an awful liar.” 

“Barry, listen.”

“Look. Give me the vial,” He demands. “And I’ll be on my way. Don’t, and I promise I’ll make a scene. Right here, right now.” 

There is no hint of a bluff in his tone, and it shakes her confidence a little. 

Iris West bites her lip; she knows that he could have used his powers to extract the vial from her purse without her even knowing; the fact that he was giving her the option to give herself up makes this feel like he’s approaching this situation as a cop.

“So what,” she asks, finally dropping the act. “You’re gonna have me arrested, _Flash?_ ” 

“I definitely sure should,” he says matter-of-factly "But jail won’t help you, Iris. At this point, I don’t know what will help you.” His voice breaks. He relates so closely to that need for revenge she feels. He felt it for much of his own life. His own parents were also murdered, and at such a young age. 

“Maybe you should stop trying to fix me, then. Especially if you think I’m so broken.” 

“Killing an innocent man screams brokenness to me. You don’t have to do this, through. There is another way.”

“Oh God, please I will literally vomit if you recite another passage from the hero’s handbook.” To this day, Iris doesn’t understand how she ended up with such a clean, cut, by the book guy. One who could look past her painful past and love the good parts of her that she sometimes couldn’t even identify anymore. The lies, the money laundering, the bank fraud —all of it. He’d taken every damning revelation about who she really was in stride, always opting to say that, ‘I love you more than your mistakes.” 

Her words hurt. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says crossing his arms. “But You and I both know that I can’t let you murder this man.”

She rolls her eyes. “Shocker. God forbid you mind your business! God forbid you ever throw the fucking book at the wall, and do something out of impulse. Compromise your squeaky clean record.”

“You _are_ my business, Iris,” he says taking a step forward. He reaches out and gently touches her beautiful face with the back of his hand. She flinches but doesn’t move, pressing her eyes shut as it glides down her cheek. “I don’t care about what we’ve been through. I love you.” 

"And newsflash,” he adds, “I’ve already been compromised. But I don’t need to tell you that.” There’s bitterness in his voice; the lengths that he’d gone to accommodate the unsavory aspects of her life, due to the sheer love he felt for her, had forever changed him.

For a moment, she softens, knowing he’s right. _Fuck. Why must he always be right?_ The life she leads doesn’t come without consequences, and she’s made quite a few enemies in the circle she runs in. 

For months, she didn’t understand why, despite the karma inducing shit she was involved in, a guardian angel, wearing a red leather suit, always seemed to be around, when she got into trouble. 

On more than one occasion, she’d witnessed The Flash beat up gangsters in alleyways, leaving them within an inch of their life for having the gall to put their hands on her. And one night she’d seen the anger in his lightning, when he’d sped into her apartment, the night one of her clients tried to force himself on her, and lay the guy out like it was nothing. It wasn’t until The Flash had ripped off off his cowl, after she’d collapsed into his arms, that she finally understood the depth of Barry Allen’s love for her. 

Thinking of all of the things he’d done for her cuts — momentally — through her need for revenge, or the anger she’s feeling towards him for trying to thwart her efforts. The inside of her nose starts to burn, signaling that tears are on the horizon. _Over her dead body._

Barry Allen sees the internal struggle going on inside of Iris’s head. He knows there’s more light in her heart, than there is darkness. He’s seen it, lived it. “I love you Iris,” he says again, hoping that the part of her, that still cares for him, will embrace those words. “More than any woman I’ve ever loved. More than your mistakes, more than myself.” 

He uses his hand to move the loose tendrils of hair blocking her eyes., “God, you’re beautiful,” he says, gazing into her eyes. “God, I’ve missed you.” He trails his hand down past her neck, to the peaks of her cleavage, to gauge her reaction. 

She wants to swat them away, but his hands, they feel so good against her skin. And his eyes, they're absolutely hypnotizing. Iris forces herself to look away from him, because she knows that once she gives in, her chance at revenge will be gone forever. 


End file.
